


The Extraordinary Haunting of A. Z. Fell and Co

by TawnyOwl95



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a Mess (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a former sex worker, Badly written Olde Worlde Speake, Both their families were awful, Canon Typical Violence, Crowley is a Sweetheart, Crowley is an ex con, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Ghost Agnes, M/M, Past Aziraphale Whump, This isn't exactly what I expected to happen, coffee shop AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:21:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26772853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TawnyOwl95/pseuds/TawnyOwl95
Summary: Collector and rare book dealer A.Z. Fell has acquired a seventeenth century book of prophecy. Unfortunately he has also acquired the ghost of the author, Agnes Nutter.And she has vengeance on her mind. A four hundred year old grudge now threatens the safe, easily managed life Aziraphale has carved out for himself in Soho.Worse, Agnes has worked out he fancies the owner of the coffee shop across the street. Apparently, if Agnes can't rest in peace, no one can.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale & Agnes Nutter, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 181
Kudos: 247
Collections: Trick-Or-Treat!





	1. The Shameful Neglect of Cocoa

**Author's Note:**

> Written on a whim for the Trickety Boo Event. Check out the collection for other spooky works.

The book did not look like it should have been in the crate. It lay on top of the more neatly packed volumes of Victorian ghost stories, much older than they were, yet in remarkably good condition for it’s age. If, of course, you ignored the child’s crayon drawing on the title page. Aziraphale tutted. If that’s how the book was being treated, best it had ended up with him. 

“Anything interesting, Mr Fell?”

Aziraphale didn’t look up from his desk. “It looks promising, Pulsifer. Pop the kettle on and I’ll conduct a thorough investigation.”

Newton Pulsifer was a good lad. He knew when he wasn’t wanted. Soon the only thing disturbing Aziraphale’s peace was the hiss of the kettle and the clatter of saucepans. Later, there was a polite cough and a mug of cocoa at his elbow, but that was all the disturbance he’d be subjected to for the whole of the day. Pulsifer would open the shop and see things ticked over well enough. 

It had been worth the arduous tube journey from Soho to Hampstead for the house clearance yesterday, for this book alone. It really was in very good condition. The binding barely split, the green leather of the cover hardly worn. The embossed gold lettering was still pristine. 

A book of prophecies. Nice and Accurate prophecies by Agnes Nutter, witch. Well, now, there was a thing. 

“Well then, Ms Nutter. Let’s see if you’re any good.” Aziraphale chose a page at random and read. “ _ Open thine eyes to understand. Open thine eyes and rede, I do say. Foolish bookseller, for thy cocoa doth grow cold. _ ”

For a moment Aziraphale heard the words outside his head as well. Archaic and amused as they tickled his ear like an echo of fairy laughter dying away. 

“Cocoa doth grow cold? What cocoa?” Aziraphale surfaced slowly into the backroom of his bookshop. He leaned back in his chair, the hairs on his neck tingling. He looked around slowly. Nothing out of order. In the shop Pulsifer could be heard tripping over and bumping into things with his usual enthusiastic good will. Outside London breezed along, as noisy and dirty as always. 

Aziraphale was being fanciful. Happened sometimes with volumes this old. The romance of it could do funny things to some people’s imagination. Not his though, obviously. Aziraphale’s hand absently closed around his cup of cocoa, which was, now that he thought about it, cooler than he normally cared for. He glanced back at the prophecy. “Oh, fuck.” 

Just behind him, close to his ear, someone said, “Boo!”

Aziraphale fell out of his chair. 

  
  
As Aziraphale put himself back to rights he decided that the problem with the current situation was, well there were several problems, but the chief of these was that ever since he'd had the good fortune to be able to afford to, he had lived alone. He was happy living alone. He'd worked hard to carve out a little corner of Soho where he felt safe, and in control. Where he could be himself. Or at least, as much of himself as he was comfortable with acknowledging.

Therefore this current situation was going to take some adjustment. Now, If he could just get his heartbeat back under control and ignore the pain prodding at the base of his spine. Really, the apparition had just appeared out of nowhere. And while she  _ had _ stopped laughing now, she hadn’t yet stopped talking.

And she  _ was _ a ghost. Most definitely if the near transparency and echoey voice were anything to go by. Aziraphale could believe this while simultaneously knowing he did not believe in ghosts. He'd had an unusual upbringing and could quite happily carry two conflicting thoughts round in his head for extended periods of time without causing an explosion. 

"I'm sorry," Aziraphale interrupted, unclenching his fingers from the chair arms. "Could you explain that to me again?" 

"Be ye sure?" Asked the ghost of Agnes Nutter. "As myne prophecy states thy cocoa doth grow colde."

The cocoa really was a lost cause now. Aziraphale’s sanity wasn’t far behind it. It was the stress of yesterday, of being around so many people. The worry over whether Gabriel would pop up with recriminations about Mother, or Michael with her pointed comments about whether he was really looking after himself. Or worse, a former client might catch his eye and get quite the wrong idea. Not to mention the spectre standing opposite him, making absolutely no effort to align her feet with the floor like any considerate guest would. 

Aziraphale was just having an episode, that was all. If he could just remain rational and polite, then this would all get sorted out and all the little anxieties currently chasing each other around his head could be locked safely back up. 

"Take thy time," said the ghost.

Aziraphale paused in rubbing the bridge of his nose and looked up. "You're now haunting my shop?" 

"I am haunting  _ myne _ book. If that vexes thee, thee could always sell it," Agnes suggested pointedly.

This was not a language Aziraphale spoke. He placed a palm possessively on the open pages. "Oh, I don't think that's an option." 

Agnes nodded. "Aye'll gette settled in then." She sat down on his back room sofa, sinking into, and slightly through the cushions, and adjusting her skirts. She looked up at Aziraphale with a smile so content and serene that it wasn't to be trusted. 

Aziraphale could see right through it. 

He narrowed his eyes at her. "I don't suppose there's any unfinished business I can help you with? To assist with you moving on?" 

Her smile widened, turning her handsome face into something a devil would fear to look on. "I doubte ye'd have the stomach fore it, squire."

Aziraphale leaned forward, elbow resting on the arm of his chair. He smiled too. "Try me."

The shop's bell dinged. Unwilling to admit defeat, Aziraphale did not look away or relax his face muscles. "Pulsifer!" he managed. 

No answer. Blast it, where had the boy got to? 

"Best see to thyne own business first,” Agnes said calmly, but her eyes were keener. Brighter. 

Aziraphale gave Agnes a look that he hoped suggested that this conversation was far from over and bustled into the shop, ready to fight 

"Morning, Aziraphale." 

Wrathful thoughts evaporated as the world became tinged in candy floss pink. The surprisingly warm October sunlight streaming through the windows turned strands of red hair to bronze and highlighted the lines of a teasing smile, never quite fully on display. Those strong yet delicate fingers were holding a mug and a box of pastries. 

Aziraphale's heart did a now familiar little tap dance, which he didn't want to examine too closely. It had become regular enough over the past few weeks that he was no longer afraid of it, but it did indicate a potential future that was quite overwhelmingly outside of his comfort zone. 

What did Tracy always say? He could only control now. The past was gone and the future couldn’t be seen. That meant taking the proffered mug of tea from long, beautiful hands without spilling it, and saying thank you without his words spilling into a desperate love confession. 

Honestly, after everything, to still believe in love was pitiful. 

"Good morning, Crowley," Aziraphale added when he trusted his mouth not to betray him. 

"Computer Geek, lost in the stacks again?" Crowley followed Aziraphale to the shop’s counter. It was safer that way, both with the counter between them, and if Aziraphale had followed Crowley then he would have been reminded just how good the other man’s denim clad arse looked in motion. 

"It would appear so." Aziraphale sipped his tea. It was perfect. Crowley was perfect. 

Well, no, he was catty and obnoxious. He had slightly crooked teeth and a slightly crooked nose. The dark glasses were pretentious, and they never came off, not even when it was nighttime. He could be ruthless about his business and took delight in the petty inconveniences of others. But he was also capable of great kindness, and he made Aziraphale laugh. And he  _ liked _ Aziraphale. He made Aziraphale feel like his company was desirable. That he was desirable. Which was as terrifying as it was alluring. 

"Have to eat both pastries then, I guess." Crowley placed the cardboard box with _The Apple Tree_ coffee shop logo in one corner on the bookshop’s counter. "While they're still warm."

"You really shouldn't."  _ But I'm glad you do.  _ Aziraphale looked down to hide his smile. 

"Who else is going to taste test them for me?" Crowley dropped a hand on the counter and waited. 

Aziraphale eased open the top of the box and was enveloped by the warm, buttery scent of pastry. 

It was a ritual that had developed since they'd first met. It had started off as a thank you for some neighbourly help and now was an inextricable part of Aziraphale's routine. On the mornings when Crowley didn't just pop in because of staffing issues, or late deliveries, Aziraphale felt off kilter for the whole day. 

Dangerous, that. To be so reliant on someone else for a slither of happiness, especially when you’d only let them down in the end. Just think about now, Aziraphale told himself. The give and flakiness of the pastry, the tartness of the fruit. 

"What's the verdict?" Crowley's mouth turned up softly at the corners. 

Aziraphale swallowed, retrieved his handkerchief from his pocket to dab at his mouth. "Scrumptious. You should try some."

"Prefer the coffee. That's why I come here to bother you."

"It's most appreciated. They really are delicious.” Aziraphale hid behind his napkin again. 

"I'll let Harriet know. Bring the cup back when you're done. No rush." Crowley pushed himself off the counter and sauntered towards the door. Aziraphale allowed himself exactly five seconds to appreciate the view, then followed. He overtook Crowley and opened the door for him. 

"I'll see you later then?" Crowley prompted.

"With the cup, of course."

Crowley didn’t leave right away. There was a moment, like there had been so many moments recently. A hesitation, the air thick with words not yet, but almost ready to be spoken. 

Aziraphale was confident he could hold his side of the conversation back for years, decades. Growing up he’d had so much practise at not sharing his thoughts and desires. Crowley though - Aziraphale could almost hear his ideas taking form, and if he was asked out for dinner, or drinks, or upstairs to the flat Crowley kept above the coffee shop for a very thorough seeing to, what would he say back? 

There was a list of potential responses. All carefully thought out and practised. None of them true. None of them a,  _ yes, please, I’d like that.  _

Aziraphale waited patiently, poised on the brink of no return. 

“Of course.” Crowley exhaled, shoulders drooping slightly. “See you later.” And he was gone.

Aziraphale exhaled his own relief and regret. He lingered at the door, as Crowley jogged across the busy morning street and into  _ The Apple Tree _ . At first Aziraphale had thought the shop was too slick. Too much bare brick and metal. He did like the plants that filled the windows though, and the people who queued up along the pavement at lunch time really were very well behaved. 

And the owner, well, he was jolly good too. Aziraphale turned as he shut the door. The tip of his nose passed through Agnes' high cheek bone. Aziraphale jumped back, hip knocking the window display. 

"Good Lord! Must you creep about." His nose tingled with a severe case of pins and needles. 

"I be a ghost." Agnes raised an imperious eyebrow at him and turned her gaze back through the window. "But I can styll enjoy a fine leg on a man. Be ye courting?" 

"No! No. Absolutely not." Oh, drat. She’d made him blush. The heat crawled determinedly up the back of Aziraphale’s neck and over his cheeks.

"He brings thee gifts." Agnes narrowed her eyes. 

"Just a kindness." Aziraphale turned away, heading back for the safety of the counter. Everything felt more manageable with a solid barrier of wood keeping the rest of the world at bay. 

Agnes followed. Not that Aziraphale could hear footsteps, but he felt the chill of her moving. "He brings thee  _ tea _ from a  _ speciality coffee shop." _

Aziraphale stopped, being careful not to turn sharply this time. His nose still burned with cold. "What business is it of yours?" What business was it of hers to know about  _ speciality coffee shops _ ? Aziraphale frowned, wondering how much of the Ye Olde Worlde Speake was put on? Agnes had presumably been watching language and society change for four hundred years. 

"It be the aesthetic. The branding." Agnes sniffed and folded her arms. There was something awfully regal about her. “I be deade, not stupid.”

"Did you just…" Aziraphale’s heartbeat picked up speed again.

"If thy thoughts be private best learn to keep them off thy face." 

She was the most infuriating woman. If she’d been locked in a room with his mother, Aziraphale really wouldn’t have been able to bet with certainty which one would still be standing at the end of the day. Aziraphale found some order forms behind the counter to shuffle. "Look, I lent him an umbrella once. He's just saying thank you."

"How long ago?" Agnes asked.

"It was a summer shower. Unexpected. So, it's October now… About six months ago." When it was put like that, it did sound more than just a kindness. The blush was back. It warmed the tips of Aziraphale’s ears. Alright, he knew Crowley liked him. Probably even  _ liked _ him. At one time Aziraphale had made quite the killing knowing when people _ liked _ him. And with Crowley there had been attraction there from the first. Still, that didn’t mean it was a sensible idea to do anything about it. Attraction led to physical proximity, which was all fun until emotions got involved. Then those had to be spoken about, and before you knew you your whole carefully ordered existence was reduced to arguments over whose turn it was to do the washing up and why your, bloodied, broken heart was currently smeared all over the walls. 

Either unaware or ignoring Aziraphale’s momentary descent into terror, Agnes cackled. "He be courting  _ you _ , squire. It be rude of ye not to have noticed!”

Aziraphale's embarrassed bluster was cut short by the door slamming open and the apologetic chaos of Newton Pulsifer spilling through it, all legs and arms, and wildly swinging bicycle helmet. Aziraphale darted forward to steady the central display of books as Newton swirled his way to the shop counter. 

"Sorry, I just popped out to give  _ Intimate Books _ next door the mail that came here again by mistake, but there was a woman there who was really upset, and then by the time the cat was rescued, and I had a new bike chain there was no hope of getting back here any quicker."

"Quite alright, dear boy. Have a sit down in the backroom and calm down." Honestly, Aziraphale could never bring himself to reprimand Pulsifer. The boy's heart was in the right place, it was just everything else that felt alarmingly chaotic. And he never insisted that Aziraphale upgrade the old till to a computer, which was a definite plus. “Just don’t touch anything!” Aziraphale called out as the door slammed.

"Quite the interesting young man," Agnes observed. 

"He's not that young," Aziraphale protested, brain still half stuck on wicked smiles, and even more wicked hips weaving its way through early morning traffic. 

Agnes cackled again. "I meant yonder booby! Not thy sweet streak of temptation."

“He’s not mine. We barely know each other really.” Aziraphale slammed down the sheaf of papers. He tugged down his waistcoat. "Well, madam, if you insist on staying, I suppose we can at least find a way to make you useful."

“Oh,” Agnes tilted her head to the side. There was iron in each word. “Do ye think so?”


	2. The Unexpected Cracking of an Egg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale seeks help to deal with his ghost infestation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for reading and all the comments and kudos. The next up date wont be quite as quick, but it's all written, just revising now.

For a bookshop owner who did not actually wish to sell books, at least not to presumptuous customers who blithely wandered in off the street, there should have been a great many uses for a resident ghost. Strange noises and swirling cold air, spectral laughter, and maybe even a touch of suspicious mist. Agnes would have none of it. 

“It be near All Soul’s Eve, squire,” she tutted as she made a show of resting her elbows on the upstairs balcony and peering downwards. “Ye starte pulling stunts like that and ye’ll have every ghost tour in the city wanting to stop by.”

She then, probably through nothing but spite, sent a breeze of cold air down to where Pulsifer was up a ladder shelving books. He didn’t fall, but it was a close thing. The books weren’t quite so fortunate. Clinging gamely to the ladder Pulsifer peered owlish upwards. “Is that you Mr. Fell? Did you feel that?”

“Must be a window up here open,” Aziraphale called back. He made sure to glare at Agnes, but she remained impervious to his displeasure. She’d managed to remain impervious to his displeasure all day. Aziraphale had tried to huff and tut her out of the backroom, and sigh her away from his living room when she’d followed him to the flat upstairs to poke about in his private book collection. He couldn’t stop being aware of her. She was everywhere. Her presence leaking into the fixtures and fittings like tar. 

Aziraphale was already winding himself into a coil of anxiety over what would happen this evening. She’d still be there when everyone else had gone. Would he have to talk to her? Entertain her? How was he supposed to read with her hovering about being all perceptive and  _ chatty _ ? His own hands gripped the balcony rail tight enough that his knuckles went white. 

“Sorry about the books.” Pulsifer was already down the ladder and gathering them up.

“You always are,” Aziraphale murmured. He turned back to Agnes. “That was unkind.”

“Just seeing what the boy be made of.” Her gaze was thoughtful as she watched him clamber back up the ladder.

“Insecurities and unmet hopes, just like the rest of us,” Aziraphale snapped and fully intended to leave the old hag to it. 

“Well, that’s what thee be made of, certainly.” 

Aziraphale turned at the top of the stairs. Had she meant him to hear? Of course she had, the insufferable harpy.

Agnes still leant on the balcony looking down, just a pale smear of a shape lit up by the grey sunlight falling through the dust and bird droppings on the oculus above. She glanced up at him. “If I be wrong, prove it.”

“I am perfectly content with my life, thank you.” And yet Azirapahle’s hands were shaking. 

“Perfectly content. Very good.” Agnes said.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Aziraphale’s voice was higher than he would have liked. He clenched his trembling hands. 

"Nothing. Nothing wrong with being perfectly content, if indeed that's what ye be?" 

He was. Twenty-one years ago he’d never imagined he’d be this fortunate. He was free of his family, had a place to live and a job that gave him daily pleasure. He’d worked hard for that, making drinks and on his knees and on his back. 

And when the shop was closed and Pulsifer had gone off on his bike, Aziraphale had peace and quiet. No one to judge him or doubt him, or question his worth. No one except himself, and he’d long since managed to push those voices deep down inside. He was  _ free _ . And alone. And sometimes, if he caught the book lined shelves out of the corner of his eyes they did look more like a maze keeping him trapped inside than a defense to keep everyone else out. 

“If I be irritating ye, thy fine devil acrosse yonder way will still be wanting his cup backe.” Agnes continued watching Pulsifer. She’d cracked Aziraphale open like an egg and was now leaving him to drip on the carpet like it wasn't something that would have to be scrubbed out. 

Aziraphale’s breath was ragged. “You have been irritating me since you first arrived, madam. This instance is nothing worth remarking on.” With a flounce he stomped downstairs to the sound of spectral laughter. The truly annoying thing was that he did need to take the cup back to  _ The Apple Tree _ . 

He regarded the now clean cup on the shop’s counter, A perfectly innocent thing. Nothing wrong with returning it. Doing so proved nothing. Aziraphale grabbed the vup, and, holding it over his head so that it couldn’t be missed by ghostly eyes, called out to Pulsifer as he left the shop.

How dare that b... _ witch _ move into his shop and start asking questions. Aziraphale was perfectly content.  _ He was _ . 

And yes, alright, sometimes being around Crowley, or even thinking about Crowley, opened up a deep hollow inside him, but that didn’t mean he was lonely or unhappy. He’d chosen his life. He was selfish to expect anything more. Didn’t deserve anything more. 

“Bugger.” Aziraphale fished in his pocket for his phone. He paused just out of view of  _ The Apple Tree’s _ windows so he could call Tracy. He went to voicemail. Probably with a client. She still indulged the regulars sometimes, for old time’s sake. 

Aziraphale tried not to blame her for being unavailable. He could understand missing that life. He’d been truly in control then. Of himself and what happened to him. It had been liberating. And the joy he’d had from sucking cock after a lifetime of being told wanting it was degenerate, and being good enough to be paid for it at that, had been a special kind of pleasure. As had being able to walk away from people afterwards not feeling like anything more was owed. It was a physical transaction, and his heart was safe. He couldn’t let them down if he didn’t stay. They couldn’t let him down. 

He could have Crowley like that. Would that be something Crowley wanted? Would that be something Aziraphale would be content with?

Absolutely not, his heart screamed. 

Aziraphale's mind shrugged unhelpfully in response. 

Lost in his own gloom, Aziraphale didn’t bother leaving Tracy a message. The realisation that he had no one else to call. No one else he could even imagine moaning about his ghost problem to did not calm his jumping nerves. Still, he wasn’t about to go back to the bookshop still in the possession of Crowley’s cup. Aziraphale may be staring forty in the face with an armful of, what was it? Insecurities and unmet hopes, curse Agnes Nutter back to her grave, but he was nothing if not stubborn. 

Aziraphale strode bravely forward and pushed open the coffee shop’s door. He was met with a wave of warmth and friendly chatter. It was too much. Too much noise, too many people to cope with when he felt raw and exposed like this. Aziraphale ran his hand over his eyes and prepared to bolt.

“Aziraphale!”

Crowley wove through the tightly packed tables, a white cloth hung over his narrow, black-clad shoulder. Aziraphale couldn’t process whether he was relieved or mortified to see him. “I brought back your cup!”

Said cup was taken from him. “So I see.” Crowley graced Aziraphale with his almost smile. “You ok? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Aziraphale glanced up quickly. Twin images of his own wide eyes and twisting mouth stared wildly back at him from Crowley’s glasses. “Oh,” Aziraphale said, and tried very hard not to burst into tears. He managed it, barely. Then Crowley made everything worse by being kind.

Honestly, if he’d just ignored the wobble and let Aziraphale go on his less than merry way everything would have been fine. The world would have continued to tick over nicely and nothing would have had to be upset. But no, some people just couldn’t take a hint. Crowley clutched Aziraphale’s arm and steered him purposefully to a corner booth and sat him down. 

“Stay!” Crowley handed over the cloth. It was clean enough for Azirapahle to dab his eyes with. 

“It’s nothing. The shop…”

“Computer Geek won't be able to cause that much damage. Stay.” Crowley’s hips wiggled their way back to the cafe’s counter. 

As the idea of doing a puffy eyed walk of shame back through all that chrome and exposed brick to the cafe’s glass front door was far worse than anything else Aziraphale could currently imagine, he did as he was told. After a few minutes Crowley came back with a tray. A cup of tea was put down in front of Aziraphale followed by several plates, each with a slice of cake twice the size of his fist. 

“Didn’t know what you’d like.” Crowley slid into the booth opposite him. “Chocolate is traditional I guess, but it’s also got wasabi in. Still too sweet for me anyway so there’s some lemon drizzle, and the coffee cake is a big seller today. Harriet really outdid herself with it.” 

The coffee cake was nudged towards Aziraphale across the table. He began to well up again. “Thank you, you really are…”

“No. I’m not.” Crowley was fidgety. Bony hips shifting back and forth on the faux leather seat, hands flexing as he picked up and started to shred a napkin. “Who was it, Aziraphale? Was it your family?”

Aziraphale looked up, startled. “No. Not this time, why did…did you even think that?” They did come round sometimes. Inevitable that they would find him eventually, them and their pamphlets and good intentions. What had Crowley seen though? How long ago had his last run in with Michael and the others been on that street corner? Aziraphale rubbed distractedly at his ribs. The bruises had gone down but the lingering smear of shame and disappointment hadn’t quite rinsed out yet. 

"Sorry, I mean. Just projecting, assuming. I mean you never mention them so I just....never mind.” Crowley sat back, staring at a particularly lush plant trailing leaves above them. It quivered. 

“Well, you never mention yours!” Aziraphale accused. 

“Yes, and there is a very good reason for that!” Crowley sounded defensive, but his lip twitched with amusement. 

Aziraphale huffed and dug his fork into the coffee cake. Harriet had, indeed, outdone herself. Live in the moment. Just let the sweet thickness of the icing coat his tongue and the roof of his mouth. Just enjoy the give of the moist crumb under his teeth. He hadn’t realised his eyes were closed until he opened them to see Crowley leaning forward on one elbow, chin propped on his hand. One of those sharp eyebrows was lifted and he bit down on a smile. 

"What?” Aziraphale put down his fork. 

Crowley shook his head. “Nothing.” He sat back, drumming his fingers on the table. “So what’s the matter? If you’d like to talk to me.”

“You’ll think it’s silly.” It was. All of it. The current spectral straw that had broken him, and all the neurosis that had contributed to the build up of it.

“Maybe.” Crowley’s full smile bloomed over his face as wicked and delicious as Aziraphale had always imagined it would be. 

Aziraphale placed his palms on the table and took a deep breath. “There's a ghost in my shop.”

The moment stretched Both Crowley’s eyebrows went up. This, Aziraphale guessed, meant something truly astounding had been said. 

“Seriously?” Crowley asked. 

“Yes. I’m afraid so.” Aziraphale realised he was smiling too. He was still washed out and weak, but it was calm in their little corner. And Aziraphale was grateful for Crowley's skepticism. It was far more reassuring than being humoured. He hated being humoured.

“Can I meet them?” Crowley asked. "The ghost?" 

“You don’t believe me?” Aziraphale teased. "Not that I'd blame you. It’s all very outlandish. I’m surprised I’m taking it as calmly as I am, especially considering I don't even believe in ghosts in the first place." He dug back into the coffee cake. 

"Let's say I'm reserving judgement." Crowley settled back, slinging his arm along the back of the booth’s chair. 

"I suppose that's fair enough." Aziraphale sucked the last of the coffee cake from the prongs of his fork. 

“Want to get the rest to go?” Crowley asked, voice slightly rough. 

Aziraphale quickly put down his fork, suddenly embarrassed and feeling rather silly. It was just cake, after all. No need to be so enthusiastic, so glutinous. It was just that he felt comfortable with Crowley. Comfortable enough to let all the little foibles he’d thought had been drilled out of him resurface. “Yes, that would be lovely. Thank you.” He made himself smile politely. 

“Pleasure.”

After Crowley had gone Aziraphale rubbed at his eyes again. It had been a very long day. And he was probably going to have to find himself a priest who could perform an exorcism. Immediately. 


	3. The Surprising Acceptance of an Invitation.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confrontations are had and plans are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading. Hope you enjoy the mid week update.

A brief scuffle over whether Aziraphale would be allowed to pay for the cakes or not (he was, but with the benefit of Crowley’s staff discount) made him feel much more back in control of things. In fact, walking back to the shop with Crowley was nearly enough to get Aziraphale back to himself. Or at least, the carefully managed version of himself he permitted. 

That was until he stepped through the front door, only to be confronted by Pulsifer’s voice raised and wobbling, but undercut with the steely patience of a customer service provider who has already explained something countless times. "Even if we did have a book like that it's not for sale. And even if it were, it's Mr Fell who handles the older books." 

"I wish to speak to this Mr. Fell at once!" The customer was American, and if anything had a wardrobe almost as antiquated as Aziraphale’s. She had both hands braced on the counter and was glaring up at a recoiling Pulsifer through thick rimmed glasses.

Pulsifer glanced up, looking relieved, but also not saying a word in case Aziraphale wanted to retreat back outside. He really was a good lad, albeit his chivalry was in vain. 

The young woman's head whipped round. "Which one of you is Mr. Fell?" 

Aziraphale squared his shoulders. “That would be me.”

The woman adjusted her glasses and stalked towards him, heavy skirts swishing around her ankle boots. “You bought a crate of books from my grandmother’s house clearance sale. One of them wasn’t supposed to be in there.”

“Then why was it?” Aziraphale asked.

The woman bit her lip, looking momentarily awkward. She rallied quickly though. “That is neither here nor there. The point is that the  _ Nice and Accurate Prophecies _ were not for sale.”

Why was Aziraphale not surprised? What was surprising was that the author appeared to have made herself scarce. For a moment, Aziraphale was just tempted to hand the cursed thing over, regardless of what a fascinating treasure he suspected it was. Then the young woman said, “Honestly, given its age you must have realised it was in with a box of Victorian novels by mistake.”

Aziraphale was already fragile and having his ability questioned drove all his good intentions for calmness and politeness away before a powerful surge of hurt. “Far be it from me to question providence. If you’re happy to wait I can go and call the auctioneers...”

“It’s my book. I can prove it. There’s a drawing on the title page in crayon.”

“Well, if that’s how you’ve treated it to date, then I have even less of a reason to give it back to you, don’t I?” Aziraphale said smugly. 

“Mr. Fell, if it’s money you want.” The woman persisted, hands clenching by her sides. 

“I want you to not be in my shop harassing my staff.”

“Harassing!” She cried.

“Mr. Fell, if it is her book…” Pulsifer tried to sidle his way into the exchange. 

“Then she should have taken better care of it, Pulsifer.” Aziraphale snapped. 

“Pulsifer!” The woman turned round again. “Your name is  _ Pulsifer! _ ”

“Erm...yes?” Pulsifer’s brow creased with worry. 

Her jaw hung open for a moment and then with a groan of, “Good God!” She pushed past Aziraphale and stormed from the shop. The door crashed shut behind her. 

"What an unpleasant young woman." Aziraphale's voice quivered. 

Pulsifer looked wistfully out of the window. "Awful…" he whispered. “Her name’s Anathema.”

“How appropriate.” Aziraphale tweaked his bow tie back into place. 

“I take it she wasn’t the ghost?” Crowley said. 

Oh goodness, Crowley! Crowley had witnessed that. 

“I always thought this place was haunted,” Pulsifer said. Then in response to Aziraphale’s glare added, “Which is not at all a bad thing.”

“Adds character.” Crowley grinned. 

“That pair of you really aren’t helping.” Brimming over with embarrassment and shame now that his rage had subsided, Aziraphale mumbled something about tea and went through the back room of the shop and into the tiny kitchen beyond that. He splashed cold water on his face and put the kettle on before allowing himself a moment to grip the sides of the counter and just let the day wash through him. 

The kitchen door opened carefully behind him. 

"You OK?" Crowley asked softly. "Tell me to sod off, but you were worked up earlier, and that can't have helped."

Aziraphale adjusted both his expression and his attitude and turned around. Crowley leaned back against the door arms folded and long legs neatly crossed at the ankle. 

"I'm fine, honestly,” Aziraphale persisted despite all evidence to the contrary. “But, oh, where are my manners. Would you like some tea too?"

"Nah, I'm good. Drowning in the stuff usually."

Aziraphale made his own tea trying very hard not to brush into Crowley’s space too much. The other man watched him carefully, hardly moving until Aziraphale was near mirroring him, leaning back against the counter cradling his cup in his hands. 

“Sure you’re ok?” Crowley asked. 

“Yes, perfectly. It’s just....”

“Kisse hym.” 

It was the lightest of suggestions near Aziraphale's ear. The faintest chill. 

Aziraphale’s grip tightened on the mug as he shivered. 

“Aziraphale?” Crowley lifted himself from the door. 

“He wants thee too.” And there was Agnes. Her lower half was submerged within the kitchen counter as there was apparently only room for three people in the kitchen, if one of them was a phantom. She gave Aziraphale an encouraging thumbs up. 

Aziraphale closed his eyes. He would wish he was dead, except then he really wouldn’t be able to escape Agnes. 

“Aziraphale?” Crowley’s hand rested on Aziraphale’s forearm. 

Aziraphale glanced up at Crowley’s face, now so close he could see the faint shadow of afternoon stubble, smell the delicious almost bonfire-smoke scent of him. Aziraphale kept his hands firmly round his mug. It was the anchor that would stop them slipping beneath that ink black jacket to feel the softness of the worn black t-shirt, count over the ribs beneath. 

When was the last time he’d been kissed? Or touched by someone, come to that? Without a price being settled on first? 

“Life be short, squire, trust me.” 

Agnes was back by his ear. Aziraphale squeaked. 

“Is it her?” Crowley drew back. He looked around before turning back to Aziraphale’s face, which Aziraphale just knew was pale and gawping. “You do have a ghost! I thought it was just cold back here.”

“Suche a charmer!” Agnes laughed, and before Aziraphale could cry out a warning, she made her hand solid enough to slap Crowley’s arse. Crowley jumped, and turned so fast he nearly fell. 

“Cheeky!” He lowered his glasses, peering round the room. “I liked it.”

“I lyke him!” Agnes laughed. 

“Honestly!” Aziraphale huffed, putting down his tea. To be cock blocked by his own anxiety gremlins was par for the course, but having it happen via a seventeenth century ghost was really not the thing. “The pair of you!”

“Jealous?” He was asked, both by corporeal and incorporeal residents of the kitchen. 

“Absolutely not!” Aziraphale lied. 

“Well, thee wasn’t doing anything aboute it.” Agnes folded her arms. “Can’t abide wayste.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. Her antiquated speech really was being laid on thick enough to spread on toast. 

“What did she say?” Crowley asked. 

“She likes you too,” Aziraphale admitted.

“Of course she does. Older women always have such refined tastes.” Crowley smiled charmingly at where he imagined Agnes to be, which was about three inches too far to the left. 

Agnes giggled. It was terribly disconcerting. The horror on Aziraphale’s face must have shown because Crowley shuffled awkwardly. “I should get back then, If you’re ok?”

“Tickety-boo,” Aziraphale made himself reply. And he was ok. He was always ok really. 

Crowley nodded, unconvinced. He half opened the kitchen door, then paused. It was a moment. Aziraphale was aware of time slowing to something warm and sluggish, of the words hovering just a second away from being released. 

Aziraphale trembled. 

Crowley scratched the back of his neck. Took a breath. “You want to grab lunch tomorrow? Together? I know a place.”

There it was. Aziraphale took a stealing breath of his own. He decided on how best to let both Crowley and himself down gently. Agnes' gaze froze his cheek. Aziraphale just knew if he refused he would never hear the end of it. Still, it was his life. Short as it was. 

“Yes, please,” Aziraphale heard himself say. “I’d like that.” 

He blinked. Not,  _ thank you, but I’m busy _ . Or,  _ Crowley, I value our friendship but… _

Oh. 

And Crowley’s smile was so gentle, so pleased that Aziraphale couldn’t even care that Agnes was silently applauding them from the corner. 

“I might know a guy too,” Crowley said. “One who can help you with that erm, problem you mentioned. Earlier.”

_ Oh. _

Business then. 

“Jolly good.” Aziraphale was not disappointed. This was all for the best really. 

“Yeah,  _ jolly good _ .” Crowley’s smile grew. “See you tomorrow then.”

He bounded out of the kitchen with the enthusiasm of a giant puppy. Aziraphale’s tea was cold. He reboiled the kettle, this time pulling out a mug for Pulsifer too. 

“Nowe,” said Agnes. “That be not so hard, hmm?”

“Oh, just go kiss the devil’s arse,” Aziraphale shot back, but he was grinning and Agnes made no move to hide the fact she could see it. 


	4. The Rather Lovely Lunch (is it a?) Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's all in the title, more of less.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to every one who is enjoying this story.

Despite his fears an evening at home with Agnes was disconcerting, but not the emotional trial Aziraphale had expected. After he'd won the brief scuffle of wills over who got to sit in the armchair, Agnes set herself up at the table with one of his books. Every time she wished to turn the page a chill breeze whistled through the room. It was nothing an extra jumper and knitted scarf couldn't safeguard against though.

Agnes looked younger with her mind absorbed in the book. Her chin was propped on one hand, her other pushing ghost pale tendrils of hair back from her face. Her lips mouthed the words as she read. 

It may have been the unexpected calm, or the promise of lunch with Crowley the next day, but Aziraphale felt both brave enough and kind enough to ask, "Are you sure you don’t need help with your unfinished business? So you can move on?" 

"And why would I wysh to move on?" 

"Erm," Aziraphale said nonplussed. "To find eternal rest?" 

"Sounds dull to me."

"Yes, I rather suppose it does." Aziraphale looked about at his own finely crafted resting place. The comfy armchair, the table just the right distance for resting his glass of wine. The selection of books waiting for him. It was just what he’d always wanted, but right now didn’t feel quite like what he _needed_.

Agnes watched him again. The bird tilt to her head and a smile far too seeing. Aziraphale rather wanted to deflect her attention away from his own reflections.

"You knew how you were going to die, didn't you? Could you not avoid it?" Not an unreasonable question, surely, given Agnes’ self proclaimed profession. 

"How? By running for the rest of my life? Or by hiding everything that I be?" She sat back folding her arms.

And there she went again, taking perfectly innocent comments and observations and turning them back on Aziraphale in a way set to eviscerate him. 

"Besides, not very sporting, to run away afore the mob got to me. Still I made mye point in the end." Agnes smile had edges.

"Your point?" 

"Gunpowder and roofing nails." The edges of her smile sharpened. “In my petticoats.”

"How would that…?" Aziraphale swallowed. The room was colder but oppressive. Stifling almost. 

"For when they lit the fire."

Relief flooded through Aziraphale. She was winding him up, surely? She hadn’t really blown up a village. She couldn’t have done when the facts were against her. He laughed nervously, "But in England witches were hung because witchcraft wasn’t considered heresy and…”

Agnes’ eyes narrowed. Her nostrils flared.

Too late Aziraphale’s brain picked up on the signals that this wasn’t a joke, and his spitting of knowledge was both unwelcome and uncalled for. 

"Were thee there?" Agnes’ voice reverberated round the room. 

"No. Sorry." Aziraphale dipped his nose back into his wine glass. Embarrassment warmed the back of his neck. He always had been one to let his mouth run off without engaging his brain. And Agnes was not someone he wanted to anger. 

How much of the community would an explosion that big have taken out? And yet, they'd persecuted her. There was a cathartic justice to it, in an unjustly targeted victim taking revenge. Still, a horrible sickness flooded Aziraphale's stomach.

"So, squire. Now thee knows the depths of unnatural depravity I can stoop to, are thee sure ye still wishes to assist me?" Agnes was still, her gaze keen in the light of the table lamps.

"Actually, I think I might turn in." Aziraphale finished his wine, rather more quickly than he normally would have allowed himself to. 

Agnes flashed her teeth. "Most sensible."

Aziraphale made himself smile and hurried to the bedroom. He leaned against the door, breath coming hard and fast. It was alright, he hadn't been at the pyre. He rather hoped none of his ancestors had either. 

There was the threat of rain in the air as Aziraphale left the shop at precisely seven minutes to twelve. He gazed suspiciously up at the gunmetal grey clouds and wondered if Crowley still had his umbrella. One of Crowley's infuriating complexities was that he could remember to make a daily trip to bring tea and pastries in thanks for the loan of an umbrella that he persistently failed to return. 

Aziraphale decided to risk the weather without a bigger coat. He stepped out into the street and was immediately accosted by Anathema Device. "Mr. Fell, I think we got off to a bad start yesterday."

"I think you're right." He tried to step past her. 

Anathema blocked him. 

Rather than engaging in an embarrassing two step in the middle of the street, Aziraphale stopped. When he lifted his eyebrow though he made sure it was as sarcastically done as possible. 

Anathema wrung her hands. "It's just that Agnes was always very particular on what would happen to the book. In her prophecies I mean. I've been back through the index cards, twice, and great grandma's diary, and I really can't find any clue that Agnes said this would happen."

"And yet here you are."

"Here I am."

Despite his irritation, Aziraphale felt sympathy for her. He knew what it was like to be trapped in a family that was part cult. "You have index cards, really? Annotated, I presume?" 

She nodded. "I don't know how this could have happened. And of course it's me who lets Agnes down."

Aziraphale felt sorry for Agnes too. No wonder she couldn't rest in peace with all those ancestors harping on at her. 

"Has it occured to you that if Agnes didn't tell you what was going to happen to the book this time she may not have wanted you to know?" Aziraphale hoped he sounded more kind than exasperated. With the clock ticking it was always a close run thing. 

Anathema gasped. "She would never do that. We are her family and she looks after us! The investment in Apple. My future hus..well, she takes care of everything."

"How very dull for you." Time really was marching on. 

"You just don't understand." Anathema looked close to stamping her foot.

Aziraphale understood all too well. He still couldn't wear anything darker than pale blue without wanting to scratch it off his back before he was caught. The punishments for tardiness had been equally harsh. It was now three minutes to twelve. 

"I really must get on, but look, if it means that much to you we can talk when I get back. Pulsifer will make you a cocoa, he's really very good at it." Aziraphale made another valiant effort to step round Anathema. 

"Pulsifer," Anathema said dejectedly. Then a strange look came into her eyes. "Pulsifer. Of course! Agnes never does anything by accident."

Aziraphale couldn't see why Anathema was suddenly so excited, but he knew from painful experience it was best not to argue too hard with a fanatic. "Jolly good then, I'll catch up with you later."

Aziraphale hurried across the road in such a rush he barely looked where he was going. He walked straight into the trap. By the time he was backing away from Sandalphon, Michael was already behind him and Uriel was closing in from the side. The punch really shouldn’t have been surprising, but it still knocked the breath from Aziraphale’s lungs. Before he’d completely recovered Uriel had him by the coat and was pressing him to the wall beside _The Apple Tree’s_ windows. 

“Mother asked us to come check up on you,” Michael smiled. “We’ve been seeing some disturbing things.”

“Is he your boyfriend?” Uriel asked with a sneer. “The one in the dark glasses?”

They thought that? Oh Lord, how long had they been watching. And really, Crowley was hardly Azirapahle’s boyfriend. Had he been acting like Aziraphale’s boyfriend? Crumbs. Azirapahle’s eyes flicked between the three faces, achingly familiar and yet still far too distant to reach. They looked at him with expressions ranging from contempt to indifference. He tried to be angry with them, but was honestly more angry that their treatment of him still hurt. 

“You’ve been out of the fold too long,” Michael said. “Should have dragged you back as soon as we found you.”

“Well, it’s been lovely to see you all.” Aziraphale tried to remove one of Uriel’s hands from his lapels and was slammed unceremoniously back into the wall. 

"Oi! Oi! Leave him be, you wankers."

Aziraphale bit his lip, silencing Crowley’s name before it could escape. He tried to make his eyes convey the fact that Crowley should take himself off somewhere else. Anywhere else. 

The gorgeously heroic idiot kept advancing. “I said leave him be. My assistant manager is calling the police!”

People were starting to stare. It was probably that which persuaded Uriel to release Aziraphale. She smoothed down his lapels before stepping back. 

Michael was already retreating, bestowing her glassy smile on Crowley as she held up her palms. Sandalphon, always the creepiest, bumped Aziraphale’s shoulder with his as he followed the others. “We’ll be seeing you soon, little brother.”

Aziraphale tried to wipe Uriel’s touch off his coat with his handkerchief. He needed something mundane to do. Something normal. 

"What the Hell?" Crowley gripped Aziraphale’s arm.

"Heaven, actually. Well, nearly. The Heavenly Church of The Divine Plan." 

"And you fell, huh?" Crowley asked.

"What?” Aziraphale blinked. 

Crowley smiled down at him. A tightness just visible around his mouth, but still a smile. He quirked an eyebrow in a _come on and humour me_ kind of way.

“Oh, yes. Aziraphale Fell. I fell. Very good." Aziraphale forced his own lips to smile. “No, I’m lying. That’s bloody awful.”

Crowley laughed. "I’ll walk you back to the shop." 

"No. No.” Aziraphale eased his arm out of Crowley’s grip. Really, he’d been manhandled enough today. “I'd much rather go for lunch." 

Aziraphale was no longer afraid of them, after all. Well, perhaps he was. Absolutely terrified, but that hadn't stopped any of his other questionable life decisions, had it? He'd been looking forward to lunch all day. Even if it was just to discuss exorcisms. Aziraphale suspected any time he spent with Crowley would never be time misspent. And, damn it, he wanted to do something normal. Normal people went to lunch with their friends.

"You sure?" Crowley didn’t look convinced.

Aziraphale forced some brightness into his voice. "Completely."

  
  


The place Crowley knew was small, the decor sleek and unfussy. It was also busy, but the server gave him a grin and waved them over to a table in the corner. His eyes gave Aziraphale a subtle once over, and a wink was bestowed on Crowley along with his menu. 

“You come here often?” Aziraphale asked as innocently as possible. 

“Ignore the kid,” Crowley said to the wine list. “He thinks he’s being smart.”

“That’s because I am smart.” The server placed a jug of water on the table. “Can I get you any drinks?”

Aziraphale checked his watch for modesty’s sake and then ordered the biggest glass of red wine he could. Crowley told the boy to bring the bottle. “Warlock's mum is my cake baker.” Crowley explained. “Used to hang out alot in _The_ _Apple Tree_ when he was younger. I may have nannied him a bit when Harriet was busy. Thinks it gives him _privileges_.”

“Hmmm.” Aziraphale sipped his water which made him feel more at home in his own body again. He made a very great point of thanking the server when he brought over the wine though. The sneer Crowley gave them both over it was delightful.

When the food had been ordered, Crowley got his own back by asking, “So what was that all about in the street then?”

It ruined Azirapahle’s first sip of a very good burgundy. “It was nothing. A family visit, that was all,” he murmured in response to Crowley’s concerned gaze.

“That was your family?” Crowley sat forward, elbows on the table. “I can see why you don’t mention them.”

“They are rather awful.” Aziraphale managed a smile and looked away, focusing his attention back to his wine. 

“Want me to have them taken care of?”

“Oh, would you, my dear?” 

Crowley didn’t join in with Aziraphale’s chuckle. His cheeks did wash slightly pink though. He shifted back in his seat again, hands fiddling with the cutlery. 

“Wait, you’re serious?” Aziraphale’s amusement died as his throat constricted. “Crowley, are you serious?”

“Didn’t always own a coffee shop,” Crowley mumbled.

“Well, I didn’t always own a bookshop,” Aziraphale retorted. 

The corner of Crowley’s mouth kicked up a bit. “Do tell.”

Aziraphale’s inside squirmed at that look. It was flirty and warm, and oh God he wanted to tell Crowley everything about his past. He wanted to know everything about Crowley’s. He was staring and Crowley was staring right back, the other corner of his mouth curling. It was a moment. This was troubling, but right now, with his heart beating faster, Azirapahle didn’t care. 

Warlock came back to take their food orders. Azirpahle seized the moment to discuss the specials board with relief. Crowley handed back his menu with a, “The usual please.”

As Aziraphale couldn’t invite the server to sit down and dine with them, he let him go. With a great deal of will, he turned back to face Crowley. 

“Sooo…” Crowley slouched back in his chair, tapping the knife lazily against the white table cloth.

“I don’t actually want my family taken care of,” Azirapahle said in a rush. And he didn’t. He didn’t. Except in puerile fantasies late at night when he’d had too much to drink and couldn’t hold in the anger any more. “But could you really do that?”

Crowley looked away, his tongue licking at his canines. "Not me, but I know people who could. I erm, have a history of…” He let go of the knife and leaned forward over the table, hands clasped. Behind his glasses Aziraphale sensed the movement of his eyes searching Aziraphale’s own. “Ok, my dad wasn't nice. He found it easier to communicate with his fists rather than anything else. I ran away from home after things came to a head. Lead to a career of motor vehicle theft and dangerous driving. Mostly because I needed to eat, pay rent, all the boring stuff so...yeah. I have some less than salubrious contacts. That's me." He slumped back in his chair. He started tapping the knife again. 

"Oh." Aziraphale managed. That was rather a lot. For so many reasons. The most selfish of these was the suddenly desperate hope that Crowley might actually be able to appreciate some of the less socially acceptable aspects of Aziraphale's career path.

"Oh? Not the worst reaction I've had." The tapping of the knife slowed though. Crowley’s shoulders lowered just a touch. 

"But not the best, either?" Aziraphale became aware he had dragged the napkin off the table and was twisting it in his lap. 

"Might be, actually,” Crowley decided. 

Aziraphale glanced at the napkin, it's perfect white folds balled out of shape. "My family wanted me to be a priest in their church,” He admitted. And it still hurt so much. All of it a creeping, constant pain. The trying and the failing. “Couldn't do it. Faked it until my second year at university started. Let them down dreadfully. Cleared out my bank account and came to London. Got a job bartending, after some time on the streets. Due to also having to eat and pay rent, I erm, well, I have a history, of erm….” Best to get it out the way. Rip the plaster off, as it were. And Crowley would understand, wouldn't he? Having been faced with his own choices. “Soliciting in a public place and outraging public decency. Or, I would have done, had I ever been caught." Aziraphale reached for his wine. 

Crowley’s knife was completely still now. Both his eyebrows were clearly visible above the rims of his glasses. "Really, you?" 

"Well, not the _worst_ reaction I've ever had." Aziraphale sipped more of his wine. It really wasn't. He was floating. Light and ephemeral with relief. 

Crowley grinned. "I like that you can surprise me."

"Really, dear, how else do you think I afforded the deposit on the shop?" There was immense satisfaction in seeing Crowley blush at the endearment again, and at not feeling obligated to explain or justify himself. 

"You own that hulking beast of a corner plot?" Crowley asked.

"Well, when I've paid off the mortgage. Yes." And yes, Aziraphale told himself. It was ok to be proud of that. He’d worked hard to get this life, and it was still a work in progress. For the moment, bathed in the sweetness of Crowley's smile, that was now much more exhilarating than terrifying. 

"There you go, doing it again." Crowley raised his glass. 

Aziraphale raised his glass in return. Then their food came and everything after that was rather lovely.


	5. The Magic, and Concerning, Finger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Help is sought from a professional. Aziraphale is hen pecked from all directions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who is reading. I really appreciate all of you.

Everything continued to be rather lovely, aided and abetted by the wine that had been drunk over lunch. It allowed Aziraphale to pretend that he couldn’t hear all the little worries clamouring for his attention as he and Crowley wove their way through the London crowds of Soho. Occasionally their elbows bumped. Occasionally Crowley would touch Aziraphale’s arm or the small of his back to guide him. 

It was all in danger of going quite to Aziraphale’s head until they stopped halfway down a narrow road full of shop fronts half submerged below the pavement, each with dank looking steps leading down to them. The buildings above these sad little places all had darkened windows, and the buildings leaned in towards each other. The only things missing from the depressingly Dickensian feel of the place were the washing lines criss crossing the sky and the open sewer running down the middle of the street.

“So.” Crowley scratched the back of his neck. “You remember when I said that I had some less than salubrious contacts?”

“Should I be afraid?” Aziraphale asked. There was no one else in this street. Although the miasma of damp had a personality all of its own. 

“Not afraid, no.” Crowley said. “Disgusted, maybe. Repulsed, perhaps. Just, Shadwell is my friend. He helped me out alot when I was in trouble. If he behaves like a git, please remember that. For my sake?” 

“I’m intrigued,” Aziraphale managed. “And still actually terrified.”

“Not a bad state to be in,” Crowley decided. “Come on.” He went down a staircase that seemed no more grimy and despondent than the rest and knocked on the sorry looking door at the bottom. After a pause, Crowley knocked again and then pushed it open. Azirapahle took a deep breath and followed him. 

He was immediately enveloped in a fug of cigarette fumes that got thicker and heavier the further into the shop they went. The carpet sucked on Azirapahle’s shoes and what space he could see on the tables between the piles of books, papers, and unpleasantly painful looking metal artefacts looked equally tacky. 

One particular item was a thin bulbous metal shape with a heavy metal ring protruding from the narrow end. It looked terrifyingly innocent. It reminded Aziraphale of a pear, which was unfortunate as up until this moment, he’d always quite liked them. 

“Shadwell?” Crowley called from somewhere in the rapidly thickening clouds of smoke. “It’s Tony, you in here?”

“Oh, aye, young Tony. Just popped the kettle on. You and your wee friend wan’ a cuppa?”

“No!” Said Aziraphale quickly. “Thank you!”

“We’re good,” Crowley said. “Just had lunch.”

“Aye. Aboot to open a tin of condensed I was, meself. What cannae be doing for you on this fine day?”

Crowley emerged from the cigarette smoke accompanied by a squat gentleman who reminded Aziraphale of a hobgoblin in a rain mack. He had one of the abominable cigarettes in one hand and a tin of condensed milk in the other.

“I believe we are here to test your knowledge of the occult,” Aziraphale said. Now he was used to the murk of the place, and his eyes had stopped watering, he could make out the subject of the woodcuts on the walls. The man, if man it was, clearly favoured witches rather than the ghosts of witches, but Aziraphale was fully determined to take what help he could get. 

“Oh aye?” Asked Shadwell, “and how many nipples do ye have?”

Alright, maybe not whatever help he could get. Aziraphale gave Crowley an imploring look. Crowley grabbed Shadwell’s hand and steered him back into the fog. The hushed conversation that followed went; 

_ “He has two. Jesus Christ!” _

_ “Are ye prepared to swear to that under oath?” _

_ “What? Fucking hell, Shadwell,” _

_ “Laddie, you ken I only have yer best intentions at heart.” _

_ “Look, I would very much like to check ok, but that is not going to happen if you keep being a weirdo.” _

_ “Weirdo? Me?” _

Aziraphale would have shuffled his feet, had the carpet seen fit to release its grip on his shoes. He contented himself with blushing furiously and trying not to look at a wall display that was a shelf of ugly looking clamps. 

After a moment he was rejoined by Crowley who gave him an apologetic shrug and Shadwell who said, “So ye’ll be wanting my finger then?”

“I…” Aziraphale looked at Crowley for help. “I...beg your pardon?”

“To exorcise your wee ghosty.” Shadwell uncurled a black nailed digit from around the condensed milk tin. He waggled it in a manner that Azirapahel found disturbingly suggestive. Worse, he could just imagine Agnes’ face when confronted with it. 

“Crowley…” Aziraphale began as reasonably as he could manage. 

“For the last time,” Crowley said. “Shadwell, you cannot exorcise demons with your finger. We need information.”

“Aye? Yer say? Well, probably jus’ as well. Arthritis is giving me jip.” He curled the finger back up and took a hearty slurp from the tin. 

“We need information on a witch.” Crowley said. “Her name is, was, Agnes Nutter.”

Shadwell went pale. The tin of condensed milk hit the floor with a crash. Aziraphale had to shuffle back to stop the sticky liquid getting on his brogues. 

Finally they managed to leave Shadwell's museum of despair weighed down with two boxes full of books, papers and witch hunting paraphernalia. Aziraphale would have chucked the thumbscrews straight in the bin, except he'd feel bad about then not being able to return them. 

Besides, they had been made to sign a receipt for them. 

"Do you think he'll be alright?" Aziraphale asked, adjusting his grip on the box. They'd left the poor man in his flat upstairs after promising him faithfully and repeatedly that they wouldn't do anything without consulting him first. 

_ She's a wily one,  _ Shadwell had said, and Aziraphale was inclined to agree. When given the opportunity to meet Agnes, however, Shadwell had shook his head and wished them luck before ushering them out the door. 

Aziraphale thought of a village, what remained of its population studded with roofing nails, and rather wished he didn't have to meet Agnes again too. 

"Still, if she's that well known there's bound to be something we can find to help us get rid of her." Crowley jiggled his own box. 

"Always a silver lining, I suppose," Aziraphale mused. In this case it would very much be having an excuse to spend time with Crowley. They couldn't hoard all their intel in the bookshop after all. Heaven only knew how Agnes would react to the six inch metal pin shoved in the side of Crowley's box. 

"Eternal optimist, that's me." Crowley grinned. "Let's get the tube back.”

With his shoulders already aching, Aziraphale agreed that was a good idea. It was still early afternoon and a weekday so the tube carriage was relatively empty. Although the torture implements balanced on top of the boxes did provoke some pursed lips and raised eyebrows from their fellow travellers. 

Fortunately, Crowley's flat could be accessed by stairs to the rear of the coffee shop’s building. It wasn't until the boxes were dumped on the black marble coffee table, and they'd dumped themselves on the unyielding leather sofa (also black), that Aziraphale realised the extent of trouble he was in. 

He was in Crowley's flat. Admittedly not under the pretense of being given a thorough seeing to, but nevertheless, a carefully laid mental boundary had definitely been crossed. 

"Want a cuppa?" Crowley asked as though Aziraphale’s brain wasn’t just about to go into meltdown. 

"Erm, I should probably check on Pulsifer." Such a good lad, always available to be used as an excuse. Aziraphale sat up, bringing his palms to his knees decisively. 

"Yeah. Should probably show my face at the cafe before closing too." Crowley hauled his spine into something more resembling vertical. "Will I see you later?" 

Later? As panic began to claw its way up Aziraphale's spine he remembered the boxes. "Oh, yes. If it's not too much of an imposition? Best to deal with it at once and then I can get out of your hair."

The look Crowley gave him was long and thoughtful. Aziraphale was sure he was grinning like a nervous idiot. He tried for an expression that lay closer to normality, but the rictus in his face muscles was starting to settle in. ."Well, later then. Lovely."

"I was going to make pasta." Crowley said very slow and careful, like a man edging his way towards a wild horse, hand outstretched, inching towards the reins. 

"Pasta?" Aziraphale said. He wasn't a wild horse. He was not going to kick out and bite. Not unless things got truly desperate. 

He was in Crowley's flat. Had agreed to come back later. Possibly for pasta. 

"Enough for two," Crowley confirmed. "If you fancy it?" 

"Fancy it?" Aziraphale's eyes flicked to the open plan kitchen with the three stools lined up beneath the counter. 

The moment hung in the air between them. Patient, but just tipping towards awkward. 

Behind his eyes Aziraphale's brain screamed at him to say something. Anything. He panicked. "Yes, lovely, thank you."

_ No that!  _ His brain cried.  _ We rehearsed this! Evacuate! Evacuate!  _

"Lovely," Aziraphale said again. And it would be. If lunch in a restaurant had been lovely then this would be exceedingly so. What if there was candlelight? What if the pasta turned out to be spaghetti and the whole thing dissolved into that scene from  _ The Lady and The Tramp _ ? 

“See you later!” Aziraphale fled. He didn't properly start breathing again until he'd got back to the bookshop. 

"There you are, Mr. Fell!" Newt wandered out from behind a shelf holding a duster. "I'm really starting to think the heating is broken." He shivered. 

"You aren't exactly dressed for October." Aziraphale looked pointedly at Pulsifer’s naked forearms. 

"I did have a jumper, but I leant it to that young lady, Anathema. She came in this morning, just before I think the heating broke actually. Poor thing was waiting for you, but she got so cold. I gave her my jumper and told her I'd ask you her question when you got back. She's popping by later… "

Aziraphale wanted to make the words stop. His head was full enough of his own thoughts and good lad that Pulsifer was, he did sometimes run on. " I won't be here later, I'm er…. "  _ Going to Crowley's flat for pasta. And to research the history of a seventeenth century ghost in the hope of finding a way to get her to fuck off, but also pasta.  _

"That's alright, Mr. Fell, it's me Anathema's coming to see. We are, erm, going out for a meal." Pulsifer’s ears went an offensive shade of scarlet.

"Oh." Aziraphale knew some people liked to be bossed about, and if Pulsifer was one of them then he’d clearly found the start of the path to happiness with that forthright young woman. 

"Are you angry? She's really quite pleasant when she stops being scary. And she knows ever so much. She said she could tell me about my family history." Pulsifer beamed hopefully. 

It occurred to Aziraphale, slowly and dreadfully, that Pulsifer might actually want his blessing. 

"Well, if that's what you youngster's are calling it these days. What was her question?" Aziraphale hung up his coat and tried to find a way to extract himself from the conversation as calmly and politely as possible. He had to think about pasta, and in thinking about it prepare himself for all eventualities. 

"She wondered, if you won't return the book, could she at least come and look at it? There's something she wants to check." Pulsifer had followed Aziraphale to the bottom of the stairs that led up to flat. He was wearing his puppy look which was as endearing as it was irritating.

"Of course, I don't see why not. Just tell her to leave her crayons at home."

Pulsifer’s beam became radiant. "Yes, Mr. Fell. She'll be ever so relieved. A matter of life and death, she said."

"I'm sure. Start closing up, there's a lad, I'll be back down in a minute."

Aziraphale hurried up to the flat's kitchen and began rummaging about in the cupboard where he kept his nicer bottles of wine. He really should have asked more questions about the pasta dish concerned. Tomato based would be traditional, but what if the curveball of carbonara was thrown. 

And should he take wine at all? Surely it couldn't be read as anything more than a thank you gesture. If only wine had a language like flowers. A vintage that said,  _ yes I find you devilishly attractive but my heart has been smashed so many times it's never quite healed right.  _

"Take the chianti."

The pinot Aziraphale currently held nearly came to a sudden end on the kitchen floor. 

"Agnes!" Aziraphale spun round, clutching at the counter top. "Must you sneak about?"

"Yes. And you must take the chianti. He's going to make an arabiatta, but with basil and garlic, so a light red should serve thee well." She nodded. This was clearly the final word on the matter, clearly. 

"How do you know that?" Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. 

Agnes tapped her nose with her index finger. 

"And how does a seventeenth century witch know so much about pairing wine with Italian food." Honestly, for a being so completely transparent her hidden depths were quite endless.

"My descendants be both varied and talented. I'd also put thy blue shirt on. It brings out thy eyes."

"This is not a date," Aziraphale protested.

"Then why are thee going back to hys flat with wine? What else could two carefree bachelors possibly be doing?" Agnes tilted her head. Her smile was wicked.

Dread settled in Aziraphale's stomach. What were they thinking? Of course she'd know what they were up to. "Er… Alright, yes, it's a date."

Agnes looked so genuinely delighted Aziraphale blushed with shame. 

"I knew ye could do it. I can always tell when the flames of passion will run hot." She clapped her hands.

"Oh, really now. The flames of passion will be running nowhere tonight." Aziraphale put the chianti on the kitchen counter for later. 

"Be ye sure?" 

"Yes, absolutely. Stop that."

Ghostly eyebrows waggling were terribly disconcerting. More disconcerting was that Aziraphale was smiling again. 

"I will not wait up," Agnes laughed.

"Just, stay out of mischief."

"And where would the fun be in that? I be happy for you squire. And you deserve to be happy too. Regardless of what others have made you believe." 

Aziraphale fled the shop before she could start lecturing him on whatever the early modern equivalent of sexual health was. He did, put on his blue shirt and find a bag for the bottle of chianti. Pulsifer was happy to lock up after he and Anathema had left, and Aziraphale calmed himself with the knowledge that he could probably see the bookshop's frontage from Crowley's kitchen window. 

And if he and Crowley of them did end up chewing on opposite ends of the same piece of spaghetti then Pulsifer's imagined incompetence was something not to be wasted. 

Not that it would come to that. They were meeting to research a terrible and completely unsexy period of history. That was all. 

Just as Aziraphale was about to climb the external steps to Crowley's flat his phone rang. 

Oh thank god, Crowley was calling to cancel. Relief valiantly battled disappointment until Aziraphale saw it was Tracy’s number on his screen. 

"There you are, love. Sorry I missed you earlier, I was all tied up."

It was likely someone would have been anyway. 

"You alright?" Tracy prompted.

Aziraphale really wasn't sure, he flopped down on Crowley’s bottom step and told Tracy everything. She'd always been such a good listener, and although her skill with a whip was exemplary, it was probably that which made her so successful in the business.

"Oh, Az," she said when he'd finished. "You've met someone."

Aziraphale laughed weakly. "That's what you're focusing on. Not that I am currently being haunted, or the someone I've met might have assassins on speed dial."

"If he's calling the assassins to deal with your family then you'll hear no objections from me. As for your ghost problem, we'll, it sounds like this Agnes character has things under control and will move on when she's good and ready and not before.”

"I'm rather afraid you're right." He was also rather afraid that if Tracy and Agnes ever met he’d never have a moment's peace again.

"And she doesn't sound so bad," Tracy mused.

"Apart from massacring an entire village you mean?" 

"We all deal with persecution as best we can,” Tracy said firmly. “Oh, I'm keeping you from your date, aren't I?" 

"It's really not a date."

"So, make it one. Az, you deserve to be happy. And it sounds like Crowley isn't going to rush you. Just live in the moment and see what comes of it."

She made it sound so easy. And Aziraphale supposed it was. People fell in love all the time, didn’t they? "Yes, I can try."

"Go get him then, tiger."

“Tiger!” Aziraphale blustered.

Tracy growled at him and hung up. Aziraphale looked up at the flat and the light on above. The coldness of the steps was starting to seep through his trousers. It would be warm up there. Warm, and possibly safer outside the bookshop than he’d felt in a long while. And Crowley wouldn’t push. He’d never pushed. 

It wasn’t a date. But it was pasta and conversation, and help from a friend. Aziraphale was suddenly very grateful to have all of those things in his immediate future. He’d live n th moment for now and worry about the rest of it when it happened. 

Or, he’d try to anyway. And that was a start.


	6. The Terrifying Discovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agnes finishes her unfinished business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading and commenting and kudosing. This fic has been such a daft joy to share.

Crowley had made arabiatta sauce, the pasta itself was penne. Knowing that did wonders for Aziraphale's nerves. A glass of chianti while Crowley ladled the food into bowls also helped to calm them. 

There was no candlelight, but the flat's lighting was low enough to pass for romantic, if you squinted at it. Aziraphale did squint at it, but Tracy's voice was still fresh enough in his ears that it was possible not to spend too much time obsessing over it. The wine helped with that too. 

Fortunately, the music playing in the background was far from romantic. Some rocky sounding bebop that Aziraphale could get used to, he supposed, but was highly unlikely to lull his senses anywhere too dangerous. 

In fact it all went rather well and eventually they retired to the sofa with what remained of the wine to confront Shadwell's boxes. 

"Does Agnes know what we're up to, do you think?" Crowley asked, rolling up his sleeves with purpose. 

"I don't think so." Aziraphale tried not to look at Crowley's forearms, or feel guilt over the subterfuge. Odd though that Agnes could predict Crowley's cooking, but not the reasons behind it. 

Crowley clapped his hands. "Right then, best get started. You want thumbscrews or the retractable pin?" 

"Thumbscrews," Aziraphale said. "I carried that box all the way here and have developed rather a soft spot for it."

"Be my guest." Crowley shoved the box with the thumbscrews in towards Aziraphale. Aziraphale put the disgusting implements on the floor and toed them under the coffee table out of sight. He then set about sifting the many pamphlets still in the box for any mention of Agnes. 

It was not happy reading. He rubbed at his eyes. "Thank you again for helping Crowley. This really can't be how you'd have chosen to spend your day."

"I enjoyed it. Have to do it again. Next time you have a haunting." Crowley grinned, head turned to peer at Aziraphale over his glasses.

"Oh, I don't plan for ghosts in the bookshop to be a reoccurring event." Aziraphale caught himself smiling back. 

"Have to think of another reason then."

“Yes. Quite.” Aziraphale's nerves perked up again. But he had decided to live in the moment, hadn’t he? And all the lives spread out on the coffee table which were now nothing more than typeface and cheap paper were affecting him. How long did he really have before his family lost patience and moved on from threats to just dragging him back home? 

“You ok?” Crowley asked. 

Aziraphale leaned forward, a hand resting on Crowley’s shoulder so he could smooch their lips together like an amateur. 

When he'd been professional though Aziraphale had never wanted this so badly. It had been fun, most of the time, and there'd been attraction quite often as well. Never this craving though, this desire to get lost in another person. 

Aziraphale pulled back, heart beating wildly. 

Crowley opened his eyes. His lips were slightly parted and damp from the kiss. 

Aziraphale fumbled for words. Pulsifer. The shop. Impending disasters. Evacuate!

Crowley smiled, stunned and slightly blissful. "That's a good reason." His hands cupped Aziraphale's face, and when Crowley kissed him back words ceased to be important all together. 

And what was this minor indiscretion on the grand scheme of things? What was just one kiss (alright two kisses) between too (mostly) sober and consenting adults? 

Except that it soon became clear it would not be just one kiss. The brush of Crowley's mouth against his made the cracks in Aziraphale's defences deepen. Aziraphale reached out, one hand still on Crowley's shoulder and the other fisting his shirt. Crowley's fingers pushed into Aziraphale's hair, their noses squashed momentarily together as they shifted closer, upper bodies twisted on the sofa. The gentle drag of lips though, the brush of Crowley's stubble and the slide of his tongue were intoxicating. Aziraphale had always been weak and greedy. He wanted to drink Crowley down, savour the taste and body of him. 

The position was awkward and getting uncomfortable, but neither of them showed any intention of stopping. It was a lazy kiss and Aziraphale hoped it would just keep uncoiling, getting hotter and deeper, but never speeding up. Just lasting as long as it possibly could. He wiggled a bit, trying to ease the pressure of his trousers on his growing erection. 

Crowley braced one hand against the back of the sofa and lifted himself up so he could straddle Aziraphale's thighs. 

Definitely not just a kiss now. Very much not. Crowley tugged on Aziraphale's hair, encouraging his head to drop back so Crowley could brush his mouth along his jaw and down his neck. 

Aziraphale wanted more, needed more. He gripped Crowley’s hips, urging him closer. Definitely not just a kiss now. It got sweeter, darker. Aziraphale sighed in relief as their cocks ground together. Crowley palmed his waist, guiding them closer still.

"You're beautiful," Crowley whispered against Aziraphale’s lips. His fingers smoothing Aziraphale’s cheek. "Perfect. Perfect angel. You’ve no idea how long I've thought about this."

That went straight to Aziraphale’s heart, like he’d been stabbed. He gasped, body tensing. Crowley pulled back, his glasses abandoned somewhere and his eyes wide. There was nowhere to hide now. Panic built behind Aziraphale’s ribs. How long had Crowley thought about this? Long enough to come up with a pet name clearly. Aziraphale's terror must have been plain because Crowley was already climbing off Aziraphale’s lap mumbling, “Shit,” even as Aziraphale gasped, "We need to stop. Crowley. Please."

"Too much, too soon? God, I'm sorry. I always do that." Crowley was back on his end of the sofa, hands running through his hair. 

"That's alright. I kissed you. And it wasn't that. Well, it was but not specifically…" How to explain that he could cope with raw lust but affection scared him. "I mean, I'm grumpy and fussy. And greedy. I hoard things."

"And I'm needy and…" 

"I don't know if I can do this." Aziraphale covered his face with his hands. The darkness was calming.

"Me neither,” Crowley said

They both reached for their abandoned wine glasses. 

“Thing is, I enjoy talking to you,” Crowley said quietly. “Turns out I like kissing you too."

"Yes. I mean, kissing, yes.”

“Just, the er...” Crowley spun his free hand airily. 

“All a bit fast. Yes.” Aziraphale nodded. Perfect, perfect angel. How on earth could he live up to that?

"Right,” Crowley stood up quickly. “We should sober up. I'll make tea." He snatched up his glasses from the coffee table as he went. 

This moment was unlike any of the others. Nearly choking in its intensity. It clung in thick, unyielding silence until Crowley returned with two cups. He set them down and perched back on his end of the sofa. 

Aziraphale closed his eyes. He had to say something. Wanted to say something to make things better, bring them back to how it had been before. His fingers knotted around the mug. 

"Aziraphale," Crowley said softly. 

"I'm so sorry." Aziraphale murmured. 

Crowley squeezed his arm. "There's nothing to be sorry for. Just, look at this for me."

Aziraphale blinked away his tears and looked at the pamphlet Crowley was holding out.

"There." One of Crowley's long fingers traced beneath the print. "Isn't that Computer Geek's name?"

Aziraphale snatched the pamphlet, eyes darting back and forth over the small type. The witchfinder who'd lit the fire under Agnes Nutter was called Pulsifer.

Not a common name. 

And Agnes had been watching young Pulsifer, testing him. And the book! Agnes never did anything by accident. Pulsifer was the reason The Nice and Accurate Prophecies had ended up in Aziraphale's shop. 

The reason Anathema Device had also ended up in his shop. 

And Pulsifer had just gone out with Anathema to learn about his family history. 

"Oh God. Agnes' unfinished business!" The pamphlet creased in Aziraphale's fists. "What a fool I've been."

"What? What is it?" Crowley edged closer. 

"I think Agnes wants to kill Pulsifer!” Aziraphale looked imploring at Crowley, silently begging to be contradicted. “Possibly with the help of her several times great granddaughter." 

"Can hold a grudge, can't she?" 

"Gunpowder and roofing nails!" Honestly, if the woman could do that… Aziraphale fumbled for his phone and called Pulsifer. It went straight to voicemail. "It's Aziraphale. Don't trust that Anathema girl, and please, stay away from the shop. Call me when you get this. It really is very important." His voice got progressively faster, the words tumbling over his tongue as he ended the call.

"Aziraphale," Crowley said gently. "Are you sure about this?" 

"The way Agnes has been looking at him. It's all assessing and speculative." Aziraphale shuddered. "I have Pulsifer's home number in the shop." He grabbed his coat and began heading towards the door. "He lives with his mother, she might know where I can find him."

"We can find him," Crowley said firmly as he followed Aziraphale onto the fire escape. 

Oh, and that hurt. That Crowley was still prepared to help Aziraphale, in spite of what a fool he’d been. About everything. 

"Why isn't that number in your phone?" Crowley asked, successfully dragging Aziraphale back out of his own misery.

"Because I never intended to ring it again. Dreadful woman keeps inviting me over for dinner,” Aziraphale muttered as he hurried down the fire escape.

"How dare she?" Crowley’s voice was dry.

"She does it suggestively!" Aziraphale put his keys in the bookshop lock. It was already open. He looked at Crowley who'd lifted both his eyebrows. As silently as the antique hinges would allow, Aziraphale pushed open the door and peered through. 

Crowley sidled up behind him and looked over his shoulder. "Should we have brought the pin, you think?" 

"I think that would only work if she actually had a body to stick it in to."

"Yeah."

A few of the desk lamps were on and the old gramophone was crooning. Aziraphale checked the back room, and then the kitchen. When he came back to the shop, Crowley loitered awkwardly by the counter. He held a finger to his lips, touched his ear and pointed. 

A moan echoed from among the shadowed shelves. 

Oh God! Pulsifer! Wounded, but still alive, surely? Aziraphale, forgetting his own advice about Agnes not having a body, grabbed a glass paperweight. Anathema’s skull was, no doubt, solid enough, and as unchivalrous as it was Aziraphale could probably get in at least one good whack. 

With Crowley holding a staple gun in one hand and fisting the shoulder of Aziraphale's coat in the other they edged their way into the darkness. 

An all too familiar crash broke the silence. Throughout the tenure of Pulsifer's employment Aziraphale was very familiar with the sound of rare books hitting rugs. This sounded like a Bronte. It really was the limit. Dragging Crowley behind him, Aziraphale charged forward, rounding the corner to find the awful Anathema woman holding Pulsifer up by his lapels. Judging by the state of her hair he'd put up quite the fight. 

"Unhand him at once!" Aziraphale hefted the paper weight menacingly. 

Anathema stepped back quickly. 

With a cry of, "Mr Fell! I'm so sorry!" Pulsifer tucked in his shirt and stooped to grab the book, which was indeed a Bronte. "I couldn't take her home not with mum there. You know how she inferfers."

Crowley dropped the staple gun. He needed both his hands to clutch his ribs while he bent over wheezing with laughter. 

Aziraphale lowered the paperweight as he reassessed the scene. "You're quite safe?" Aziraphale felt compelled to ask, despite Pulsifer's flush and the state of his own hair indicating that he had been rather more than alright until the interruption. 

"I really am very sorry, Mr Fell."

"Quite alright, needs must.” Aziraphale’s own blush burned. He was glad it was dark. “We'll just, Erm, leave you to it then."

As they went back to the shop's counter Crowley wiped his eyes. "Do you think we should tell them her seven times great grandmother was probably watching."

"Maybe at Christmas," Aziraphale said. "Or for his birthday." It had after all been a very nice edition of Jane Eyre that had fallen foul of Pulsifer’s tryst.

Then Aziraphale caught Crowley's eye and they both burst out laughing again. 

That night, when the lovers had sheepishly slunk off to their own beds and Crowley had made his awkward farewell, Aziraphale sat in his armchair with a glass of red. He set out a second on the table for the sake of politeness. "Well, madam, you have quite some explaining to do."

The air behind the extra wine glass shimmered as Agnes pulled a ghostly semblance of herself into view. "I don't know what thee means."

Aziraphale lifted his eyebrow and let the silence drag. It was a move he'd learned from Crowley. 

Agnes huffed. “What better revenge than slipping off back to Hell to tell that sour old puss of a witchfinder that his last living male descendent is swiving a witch!" 

"Agnes!" 

She cackled. "Anathema is such a good girl. Always does what the prophecies tell her. God willing that'll change now though, what with thee having the book and that young man asking her uncomfortable questions."

"You wrote a prophecy about Anathema and Pulsifer?" Aziraphale was horrified at her attention to detail but not surprised. 

"Well not so much a prophecy as a suggestion." Agnes’ smiled, it was so devilish it would have put Satan himself to shame.

"You lied?" Aziraphale breathed.

"Not if it came true I didn't." 

"Agnes!"

She rolled her eyes. "Pffft. Seeing the future be like looking at a giant painting through a pinhole. It could be lots of fine men on their horses charging into battle, or it could be some young women lounging about with their paps out. Thee just has to make thy best guess based off which bit thee can currently be seen."

"This is why I never trust horoscopes." Azirapahle couldn’t help laughing, he just hoped he sounded suitably scandalised. 

"Give me some credit, squire." She looked at the wine, leaning forward to take a good sniff. “Go well with a nice steak that would.”

They settled into a comfortable silence. 

"So, you'll be moving on then?" Aziraphale asked eventually.

"Oh, I'm not quite done yet." Her smile was back, equally wicked and fond.

"Then God help us all. I think I'll turn in." Aziraphale didn’t want to ask. Would not ask. He needed no more reasons for his imagination to run away with him.

"You don't need help from that daft old fool. Not when you've got me,” Agnes whispered just as Aziraphale turned away.

Crowley didn't come into the shop at his usual time the next morning. Pulsifer blundered in five minutes late with a scarf wrapped tightly around his neck which he didn't take off. Aziraphale decided this style choice was less to do with the recent coldness in the shop and more to hide the evidence of last night's amorous encounter. 

Still recovering from his own amorous encounter, Aziraphale chose not to comment. Crowley was probably just running late. A sick member of staff perhaps? A kitchen emergency? 

Or maybe Aziraphale had offended him beyond forgiveness. The goodbye last night had been A Moment. One of the new awful kinds. Feet shifting and eyes looking everywhere except at each other. 

Aziraphale had thanked Crowley for his help, which was apparently not a problem. 

Then more silence. 

"I'll see you about then, yeah?" Crowley had said. 

"Yes. Goodbye, Crowley." It sounded a lot more formal in the bright light of the fading morning that it had last night. 

Aziraphale knotted his hands, then finally gave in and went to the shop's kitchen to make his own morning cup of tea. 

At about quarter past ten, Pulsifer went out to take the misdelivered mail to Intimate Books next door. 

I'm the absence of pastries, Aziraphale found a lone chocolate digestive in the biscuit tin and decided he may as well make the most of it. Crowley could do better than Aziraphale anyway. He could find someone not afraid to love him as he deserved. 

Someone who could ask for what they wanted instead of saying, thankyou and goodbye like Crowley was just the pizza delivery boy and not quite possibly the most beautiful, wonderful man to walk the earth. 

Oh, bugger.

If Crowley ever did find anyone to love him as he deserved, Aziraphale would have to hunt them down and be really quite rude to them. 

Aziraphale's brain began to propel him through a journey of the disasters that might occur to his internal equilibrium if Crowley did start seeing someone. The ringing of the shop bell was a blessing that cut it short. 

Thank God! Even if it just turned out to be Pulsifer returning at least Aziraphale would have someone to talk to. 

It wasn't Crowley. And it wasn't Pulsifer. Aziraphale froze, his smile dying a slow and painful death on his face. “Gabriel, what a pleasant surprise. Sandalphon too. Goodness, such a treat.” He stepped back. 

Escape wasn’t really an option, not with both of them suddenly taking up so much space. Sandalphon had settled in by the front door, while Gabriel made himself at home picking up a hefty copy of Mrs Beaton with a baffled look on his face. 

“So, how are you both?” Aziraphale tried.

“Worried about you, sport.” Gabriel flashed him a grin of dazzling teeth and near dead eyes. “Honestly, when we found out you’d been messing about with other men for money, well, it was shocking, upsetting, but we accepted you were probably just trying to make some kind of point. Perhaps get it out of your system. Now, Uriel tells me you have a boyfriend? That seems to me like you’re taking the whole thing a bit too seriously.” Gabriel put Mrs Beaton down with a force that made Aziraphale wince. 

“I don’t have a boyfriend. If she means the er, man across the road, I barely know him. Don’t even like him. He steals people’s umbrellas.” Aziraphale forced his smile back into being. 

Gabriel took a few measured steps forward. Aziraphale’s back bumped into the shop’s counter. He resisted the urge to scramble over it. 

“It’s time to come home,” Gabriel said. “We are worried about you.”

“I’ll need some time. To, er, get my business in order.”

“Michael can handle that,” Gabriel dismissed.

“My filing system is really quite a mess so….” Aziraphale squealed as Gabriel put a heavy, not at all reassuring hand on his shoulder. 

“Don’t worry about it. We’ll take care of everything.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes. A cool breeze tickled the back of his neck. “Ask hym about the seventh commandment.”

“Seventh commandment?” Aziraphale asked, his eyes opening and swiveling sideways.

“Seventh commandment?” Gabriel frowned. 

Aziraphale’s attention flicked back to his elder brother. He was feeling ready to burst a blood vessel. 

“Seventh commandment,” Agnes repeated in Azirphale’s ear.

“Seventh commandment,” Aziraphale parrotted.

“Adultery,” Sandalphon said helpfully.

“Give the boy a figgin,” Agnes said. 

Despite himself, Aziraphale snorted. 

"What?" said Agnes. "It be a bun with currants in."

Aziraphale laughed. High and slightly mad. He could see more or less straight up Gabriel’s nostrils he was now contorted so far back over the counter. 

“What are you talking about?” Gabriel asked. He really did take very good care of his teeth. They were like shiny, white bricks. 

“Tell hym thee knows about the buxom floozy at the End of Times conference in Manhattan 2016,” Agnes said. 

“Thee knows about…” Aziraphale began. He bit his lip as the words sunk into his mind, and their meaning spread through his body with a pleasant tingle of relief. He swallowed. “Tell, me, Gabriel, about the End of Times conference in Manhattan 2016.”

Gabriel drew back a bit, giving Azirapahle much needed room to breathe and pull his waistcoat back into place.

“Aziraphale?” Gabriel shook his head with that fond, exasperated and above all patronising look that always made Aziraphale want to smack those perfect teeth right out of his perfect fucking head.

“Manhattan.” Azirapahle said. “2016. And Vancouver 2018,” he added with further prompting from Agnes who was now floating behind Gabriel’s left shoulder having abandoned all pretense at being tied to the physical plane. 

“What’s he talking about?” Sandalphon asked.

“No idea,” Gabriel replied, suddenly not looking quite so pleased with himself. 

“Let he who is without sin,” Aziraphale said. “I’m sure you know the rest. Sure Michael does too.”

“I think we need to take a step back on this one,” Gabriel's smile had become tense. “Reconsider the best course of action…”

Agnes floated up so her mouth was just level with Gabriel’s ear and said, “Run!”

Gabriel still had too high an opinion of himself to actually run, but he did work himself up to a very brisk walk, grabbing a furiously protesting Sandalphon by the collar and dragging him out of the shop. The door slammed behind them.

Agnes clapped her hands and cackled. Aziraphale grabbed the shop’s counter, bending double as his body tried to decide if it wanted to laugh or cry. 

“You be alright there, squire?”

“No. Yes. I will be.” Aziraphale concentrated on breathing. He was light headed. Floating. Just like Agnes. 

“Good enough.”

Aziraphale straightened up. “Well, that was quite something.”

“The day not be done yet. There be a storm brewing and you’ll be needing your umbrella back.” Agnes folded her arms.

Aziraphale concentrated on her face which was now a few inches above his own. Rude really. He pushed himself up on his toes. “Oh, I can always buy another.”

“He won’t be coming to you,” Agnes said firmly.

Aziraphale held his ground and her eyes. Agnes remained unimpressed. “He won’t. Thee aren’t the only one with other people's lies in your head.”

Aziraphale’s will crumpled. He looked away. The thought of Crowley hurting, of hating himself because Aziraphale had fallen prey to his own insecurities was insurportable. “Fine,” he huffed and marched to the door. He was still light though, unencumbered by fewer troubles than he had been only a moment ago. It was liberating. Anything was possible. 

Aziraphale paused on the threshold of the shop, London buzzing along outside. He turned slightly, unprepared for the lump forming in his throat. “Agnes, you won't be here when I get back, will you?”

“Going to a better place. At least, I plan to make it better when I get there.” She nodded her head, once, decisively. 

“I’m sure you will.”

Agnes’ smile was quite possibly the softest Aziraphale had ever seen it. “Go on with you then. Nothing bad is going to happen. At least, nothing that the both of you can’t handle together. I would know.”

Aziraphale swallowed. “Thank you.”

“Go on with thee. Thee great wet posset.”

“Right, yes.” Aziraphale blinked firmly and stepped out into the street to find Crowley.


End file.
